


Be With You

by gundampilot



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming of Age, Friendship/Love, Growing Up, M/M, Summer, summer before freshman year of college kind of thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gundampilot/pseuds/gundampilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s just something about growing up that is so bitter. Something about being so hyper aware that something so constant is about to end.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Hansol and Minghao know things will be different from now on; but not all changes are bitter, and some things will always be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be With You

The humid summer air feels heavy in Hansol’s lungs and on his skin as he makes the familiar eight minute trek to Minghao’s house at the outer edge of the neighborhood. It’s dark, and Hansol can barely see where he’s going, the flashlight on his smartphone having long since burned out; but he’s traveled this same walk more times than he can count to know where the sidewalk raises from tree roots and exactly where Mrs. Anderson’s mailbox sticks out too far into the street (Hansol has the scar to show for it). Streetlights were never a thing this neighborhood wanted to invest in—Hansol counts a total of three on the way to Minghao’s house—but years of doing this at night has made him an expert at navigating. 

It’s hot, too, and almost unbearable. Hansol’s t-shirt is sticking uncomfortably to his skin, and he thinks it’s only fitting to compare this shitty southern climate to breathing inside a hot shower or sauna. His hair is too thick and long for the summer, sweat concentrated on the nape of his neck and on his hairline, and he pushes the wet, stringy strands into the dryer locks to look less of a mess. He swipes his tongue over his damp cupid’s bow and decides to make a run for it when he sees a familiar lit second story window at the corner where the streets meet—elbow almost grazing that goddamned mailbox as he cuts across the black pavement in a diagonal line. 

Minghao’s house is the only one on the street with the lights still on inside this late at night, illuminating his yard in a faint white-yellow that Hansol thinks could only ever belong to Minghao’s house. High grass tickles his exposed ankles as he makes his way across the yard to stand dumbly in the flower bed underneath Minghao’s bedroom window. Hansol laughs to himself at how 80s-movie this seems as he picks up a smooth pebble from the ground and throws it at the windowpane for effect—and maybe to make Minghao jump just a little bit.

Hansol pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Minghao an _I’m outside_. He knows better than to expect a reply to his unexpected arrival, but he also knows Minghao well enough to know he’ll be outside in the next two and a half minutes. Reality settles in his chest when he realizes this will be the last two and a half minutes he ever stands under Minghao’s bedroom window like this; his chest hurts like his heart grew a little too big to be accommodated comfortably. It’s painful and sad, and Hansol doesn’t want the afternoon and nighttime walks to Minghao’s house to become adolescent memories. Why is this the hardest facet of growing up to Hansol? He doesn’t want to admit to himself what he’s been trying to bury since last summer at the state park—all the guys sitting around the bonfire when he looked across it, and there Minghao was, palms pressed into the grass behind him with his head tilted back to look at the sky and then tilted forward to look at Hansol. Minghao smiled, and Hansol knew he was never going to be the same. 

The last two and a half minutes he will wait so childishly innocent in the flower bed of his closest friend’s front yard. It’s almost funny: he’s too old for this but still feels like he really isn’t supposed to be yet. He’s always going to have Minghao, and they will always do stupid things together. They’re even going to be roommates for their required first year boarding (they had to send the form in at the most optimum time to make sure they ended up together). There’s just something about growing up that is so bitter. Something about being so hyper aware that something so constant is about to end. 

He digs the toe of his shoe into the mulch, creating a crater in the dirt. Hansol wants to shrink and plant himself there. Grow in this flower bed and stay here forever like this. 

Hansol feels like the world is crumbling and slipping right between his fingers, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Minghao’s front door opens abruptly, and Hansol stumbles out of the garden—not entirely sure (or willing to admit) why he hadn’t moved out of it earlier. He catches a quick glimpse of Minghao’s mom standing in the kitchen in her slippers.

“Hey,” is all Hansol says when he sees Minghao. He’s dressed in an old pair of Hansol’s gym shorts he probably left there years ago, the vinyl of the school emblem faded and discolored with ‘Hansol’ scrawled in red permanent marker underneath it. Hansol is surprised to see he’s in only a tank top, no long-sleeved cotton flannel over it (always unbuttoned to reveal the undershirt). He supposes it’s too hot for even Minghao to keep up his usual, infamous look. His arms are tanned with his shoulders a slightly different tone from the rest of his body from wearing a t-shirt in the sun. He’s gotten broader, more filled out, more muscular, taller, and Hansol wonders if maybe his own changing build is noticeable to Minghao, too. 

“Are you okay?” Minghao asks as he cuts off from the pavemented walkway of his front steps onto the grass. Hansol notices the worn patch of a path that has formed over the years of doing this same thing and tries to swallow any kind of emotion that’s trying so hard to come up his throat.

Hansol knows Minghao normally wouldn’t greet him like this (the most common greeting being “‘Sup, bitch”), but it’s move-in day tomorrow at the university—the one they ended up choosing to go to together. It’s close—only two hours away, so it’s cheap; and it offers what they both want to do, so why not stay together? Everyone else in their friend group did the same. They’re the second to last batch to enter. Hansol feels bad he has to leave Chan behind alone; but he’ll be there next year, so it’s okay.

“Yeah. Do you want to get gas station burritos with me?” 

“I thought that was a given.” Minghao plucks Hansol’s cellphone from his hand, swiping the touch screen open and effortlessly keying in Hansol’s passcode. Hansol stares absently at Minghao’s shoulders as the older thumbs a text message into the text box. Minghao pushes his sweaty fringe out of his eyes and rests his opposite hand on his hip, waiting for the text that comes soon after. 

Minghao lets out a breathy laugh, and Hansol smiles instinctively. “All Mom said was we can’t do anything stupid because we can’t die or get arrested before we even sit in a college classroom,” Minghao says, handing Hansol’s phone back to him. 

“Chill, Mom. I just want four gas station burritos,” Hansol says, opening the message to text Minghao’s mom exactly that (but making sure to sign it with _\- HS_ ) before shoving it back into one of his pockets.

“You act like your parents haven’t fed you a day in your life.” Minghao begins walking to the curb in front of his house, sandals making a gross flop sound with each step he takes. “How do you feel about being unable to eat your family out of house and home after you move onto campus tomorrow?”

“ _Awful_ ,” Hansol complains dramatically, trailing behind Minghao. “My meal plan is pathetic, too. Financial aid could barely cover the cheapest fucking one. I’m going to starve.”

“Guess we’ll have to survive off four extra gas station burritos a day.” Minghao puts his arm around Hansol to pull him into his side even though it’s too hot for another person’s body heat. Minghao smells like his house and 2-in-1 bath gel. 

“I guess we will.” Hansol flips a loose lock of hair out of his eyes, heart dropping into his stomach every time they refer to each other as ‘we.’

They walk in silence to the gas station, almost shoulder to shoulder, with a new wave of sweat starting to gather at their armpits and on their backs. It’s Sunday, so there weren’t any cars in the neighborhood, but as they get closer to the busier roads Minghao gets silently insistent that he stay closest to the road when the sidewalk begins to run out and turns into grassy roadside, pulling Hansol away from the curb and placing himself there instead.

“Shit, Mom, I get it, but I’m not four,” Hansol says when Minghao maneuvers him away from the roadside. 

“Shut up. I’m not your mom.” Minghao’s voice sounds different, and Hansol can’t tell what’s behind it. Hansol presses his lips into a line. “I’m not getting mad at you. Calm down.” Minghao shoves his shoulder against Hansol’s own. Hansol responds by doing the same.

Bright lights of the gas station and a few fast food joints come into view after a few more minutes of walking, and the lights hurt Hansol’s eyes after being in the dark for so long. Hansol can hear a car’s rattling bass at one the pumps at the station and thinks he may know the song, but before he can figure it out Minghao is grabbing his hand and pulling him into a sprint across the street, thankful the busiest traffic is on the adjacent boulevard and not here.

Minghao makes it to the glass door first, holding it open from the inside for Hansol to walk through. The automated bell rings as the door swings closed, stuttering twice before it fully shuts into place with a rubbery skid. It’s so much cooler inside the store, their sweat turning chilly as they step under the air conditioner vent. Their footsteps sound so out of place in the store; it’s completely empty aside from the same girl who always works this shift. She doesn’t look up once, sitting behind the counter with her chin in her palm and cellphone in her hand. Hansol and Minghao come in here both together and alone enough for her to know she doesn’t need to bother with a customer service act.

Spotting the small familiar burrito oven lit in the corner counter, Hansol pushes Minghao with his hands on his hips, noting how small he still feels here, past the icee machine. Blue and red flavored ice swirls behind the clear plastic circles of the machine, and Hansol suddenly feels like reality isn’t all quite existent in an empty gas station. It’s stagnant here. Hansol doesn’t want to leave. But Minghao is opening the case and handing a warm tinfoiled burrito to him, and the heat on his palms grounds him. 

“You’re not getting four?” Minghao laughs as he walks back around the aisles to the counter, burrito in hand.

“Nah, I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.” Hansol runs his thumb where the tinfoil folds over in a second layer over the first. 

“I thought you said you were okay.” Minghao knits his eyebrows together.

Hansol rolls his eyes, but a smirk definitely peeks through at the corners of his mouth. “Shut up.”

The clerk rings them up, and they pay in exact change. Hansol has to dig deep in his pockets for the last few pennies.

 

 

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Hansol splutters, mouth full of the last bit of tortilla and mystery bean and meat.

“We’re moving tomorrow?” Minghao wipes the corners of his mouth with his fingers and then his fingers onto his shorts.

“No, I mean after we get there and have all of our stuff moved in.” The plastic bag from the gas station blows in the wind around Hansol’s wrist. There’s nothing in it but the metallic foil, and the bold _PLEASE COME AGAIN_ lettering on the plastic has faded from red to pink. Well, that’s what it was supposed to say. Hansol thinks there must have been a defect during printing because _AGAIN_ is so faint that it’s barely noticeable. A bitter joke or an ugly innuendo from the Universe that loves fucking with him so much? Hansol curses it either way.

“There’s probably going to be a party. Or several.” 

“Yeah. Wanna do that?” Hansol stares at the ground as he walks. Grassy roadside immediately becomes sidewalk, and he almost trips. Minghao reaches out immediately to touch Hansol’s arm at an attempt to maybe catch him if he were to fall. It was nothing, but Minghao doesn’t let go of his wrist.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” It has nothing to do with the trip, and Hansol knows this.

One very orange street light glows down onto the neighborhood’s stone marker and street sign as they come closer to the entrance. Hansol can just barely see Minghao’s house from where they’re standing. His fingers are still around his wrist, and Hansol doesn’t want him to let go.

“Like… no?” he says breaking the silence. “But I will be.” The inflection makes it sound like a question. Hansol has Minghao, so he knows he will be. But when? And for how long?

Minghao’s grip tightens around Hansol’s wrist, pulling him forward a bit and then into a run for the second time that night. They round the corner of the entrance of the neighborhood, past Minghao’s house, further and further down the street. The plastic bag flies off Hansol’s wrist into the abyss behind them. He’s surprised Minghao always manages to keep his flip-flops on his feet.

Hansol realizes where they’re running to: that vacant lot-turned-playground near his side of the neighborhood. That lot is probably the only lit area on this street with one of the only streetlights—probably for neighborhood watch to keep an eye on suspicious kids or adults. Neighborhood watch sucks, though. Hansol and Minghao have done their fair share of smoking pot under the slide at 2 a.m.

Out of breath and sweating more than they thought they would tonight, Minghao pulls Hansol to the swingset. It’s low to the ground, obviously not intended for lanky eighteen year old boys to use. Beads of sweat roll down Minghao’s arms, and Hansol bites his bottom lip into his mouth. The sweat is burning his eyes, and his hair is a wet, windblown disaster, but it doesn’t matter because Minghao is still holding onto him. Hansol gently shakes him loose anyway.

“Sorry,” Minghao huffs out, reaching under his tank top and pulling it up to his face to blot the sweat. His stomach is exposed, tan and toned from years of dancing. Hansol wants to feel the skin with the pads of his thumbs.

“It’s okay,” Hansol struggles to get out. His chest is on fire.

The swings creak under their weight, and their knees bend awkwardly as if they were almost squatting on the ground. Hansol tries to not fall onto his ass into the dirt. The humidity makes it harder for them to catch their breath, and the only sound for what seems like an eternity is just their harsh breathing. 

 

  


“Are you scared?” Minghao asks suddenly.

Hansol grips the chains of the swing tighter, like he’ll be swallowed up if he doesn’t hold onto something. “No.” 

“Liar.” Minghao pushes his swing into Hansol’s.

“Are you?” Hansol twists around in the swing, the chains criss-crossing with a grating sound.

“No.” Minghao looks at Hansol.

“How come?”

“I got you, dude.” 

Hansol wants to make a shitty offhand comment like he would any other time. _That’s gay, man._ Or a joking _Are you going to kiss me now? Haha._ He wants to kill whatever this feeling is. Ruin it before it gets worse. Turn into a joke. But he can’t. And he likes Minghao’s answer too much.

“I’m going to miss you,” Hansol finally speaks up. He doesn’t know what he means by it, but it sounds selfish and childish.

“I’m going with you, though.” Minghao pushes his swing back and forth with his feet still planted on the ground. Hansol wants to say Minghao doesn’t understand what he means, but he does. Minghao _does_. Hansol drags his fists down the metal chains and looks into his lap, hair in his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry. 

“I’m going to miss this is what I’m saying. I guess that’s what I’m saying.” Hansol doesn’t want to elaborate, doesn’t want to explain. It’ll take too long. It’ll be too emotional. It’ll sound pathetic.

“I know we aren’t the most emotionally communicative guys around, Hansol, but you’re my best friend.” Minghao pauses to look at him. “And we are going to do this together.”

“Don’t be gay, dude.” Fuck. He fucked up. Saying shit like this the day before they become roommates. Hansol loves disaster, apparently.

“Spare me that ‘gay’ shit. Spare it, please. I don’t want to hear you treat this like a joke.” Minghao is getting angry, and Hansol wants to close in on himself. Hansol knows Minghao understands what he’s doing, but Minghao is only human—not insensitive. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and digs the heels of his palms into them. “Minghao, I’m really scared.” Tears well in his eyes, and he hates himself for it. His voice sounds so small. “I don’t want to leave the happiest memories I have of you behind. I don’t want them to end. I feel like a fucking baby. I am a baby.” 

Hansol can’t stop. 

“I don’t want this to change. I don’t want us to be different. I don’t want to leave this.” ‘This’ has so many meanings, Hansol has lost count.

Minghao pushes himself up from the swing and places himself in front of Hansol. Hansol blinks tears away before he looks up.

“We can make better memories. We’re still going to have these. We’re still going to be together.” Minghao holds his hand out for Hansol to take it. This happens a lot, it seems. “It’s going to be different. It’s going to be no matter what. But I’m still going to be here.”

Hansol stands up and looks Minghao in the eyes, but he can’t read them. “I know you said we’re emotionally constipated—”

Minghao rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

“I love you, dude.” Minghao’s eyes widen and Hansol pulls him into a hug, nose pressed into his shoulder. It’s tight and sweaty and hot and uncomfortable, but Minghao wraps his arms around him all the same. 

It’s been said before. A hundred times, probably. But it’s overwhelmingly serious in this atmosphere, in this situation. It’s as a heavy as the weather.

“I love you, too. I’m always going to.” Hansol wants to beg him not to make promises he can’t make one hundred percent, but something feels so sure about it that he can’t bring himself to. It’s always been them and then everyone else.

“No, like.” Hansol can’t help it, so he cries harder, forehead pressed into the juncture of Minghao’s neck. “I really love you. I really, really love you.” There’s no doubt Minghao can feel the tears soaking into the cotton of his shirt, falling down the expanse of his arm with Hansol’s runny nose pressing into his skin. 

Hansol doesn’t know how else to say it. How else to explain it. He can only choke out ‘sorry’ between sobs. Minghao stands there and lets him say it over and over again, arms firm around Hansol’s waist. Minghao loosens his hold, so Hansol does the same. Breaking away, he pulls the collar of his shirt up to dab at his eyes, his runny nose, the sweat. He’s a mess, but Minghao is still smiling at him anyway.

“What?” Hansol can’t tell what’s funny. Maybe him. Maybe everything.

“I know what we can do tomorrow,” Minghao says, pressing his palms onto Hansol’s shoulders.

Hansol snorts, eyes still watery and face tear-streaked. “What’re we going to do?” 

Minghao drags his hands across Hansol’s shoulders until they reach his neck, and Hansol shivers with his heart stuck in his throat. He wonders briefly if Minghao can feel his pulse. Minghao’s hands travel up his throat, and he presses his thumbs into the space where Hansol’s jaw meets his ears. His fingers are oddly cold, and Hansol can only stare at Minghao as his stomach drops into his ass.

“This.” It’s whispered and gentle, and Hansol could cry again if he let himself. Minghao swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and leans in. Hansol meets Minghao halfway in a rush of adrenaline, his own hands resting on Minghao’s hips as they had only a while before, finding his lips against Minghao’s in a poorly lit lot in their childhood neighborhood. Their lips are dry, and Hansol is exhausted from crying, and their mouths taste like dollar gas station burritos, but his first kiss was worse. And he’s sure Minghao’s was, too. He remembers the story.

Minghao starts laughing into this kiss, and it causes Hansol to do the same until their teeth are bumping and their lips are dancing stupidly against each other.

“What’s funny this time?” Hansol is smirking when he presses his forehead back into the tear soaked shoulder of Minghao’s tank top.

“Do you want to stay over?” Minghao says into Hansol’s sweaty hair.

“I thought that was a given.”


End file.
